Third Man Out by Richard Stevenson

Author:Richard Stevenson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: mystery, detective, gay, movies
ISBN: 9781934531235
Publisher: ManLove Romance Press
Published: 1992-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

15

Nathan Zenck had a telephone listing at an address on Old Tyme Lane in Guilderland. I reached his machine but left no message. I picked up a sub and ate it in the car on the way out to Handbag, where I wanted to see how Sandifer was holding up.

His car was gone and the house was locked up. Out back, a sheet of plywood was leaning against the porch and an assortment of new boards was stacked nearby, along with a roll of screen. Somebody had already started preparations for repairing the fire damage.

On Broad Street I passed the Rutka hardware store, turned around, and pulled into the lot. The place looked prosperous. A big area of the parking lot had been fenced off for a lawn-and-garden department, and the big fleet of red lawn mowers on display looked formidable enough to clip Argentina down to the roots.

Inside, past the appliances department, I asked a clerk, "Is Ann Rutka around? Or is that not her name?"

"She's using Rutka again. Ann's up back." He pointed.

Wooden steps led up to a long platform that overlooked the entire store. There was no wall with a oneway glass to spy through and spot shoplifters, just a low railing and a row of desks stacked with catalogs and invoices. Maybe a hardware store was too wholesome a place for shoplifting to occur in. Or maybe shoplifters believed that if they were caught stealing from a hardware store the owner would kill them. It felt like a complex atmosphere to be in.

A woman behind a pile of invoices at the desk nearest me pointed to the farthest desk on the deck, separated from the others by a modest fence of low bookcases filled with parts catalogs.

"Ann Rutka?"

She looked up from a cluttered desk and peered at me with dark eyes from under a heap of ringlets. Rutka's sister was as handsome and well put together as John had been, and she dressed as casually, except her T-shirt wasn't from Queer Nation but bore the logo of a manufacturer of electrical pumps.

"I'm Donald Strachey. I knew your brother and wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

"Thanks." She looked skeptical and didn't put her pencil down. "The funeral's Saturday at nine-thirty at St. Michael's. You're welcome to come." She had a musically nimbly voice that poured out like gravel on the move.

"I'd like to," I said.

She looked at me, waiting.

"I'd also like to give you something," I said, and took out the five-hundred-dollar check Rutka had written as a retainer when he hired me to protect him.

"What's this?"

"I'm a private investigator and John had hired me as a security consultant. This was the retainer he paid me, but I quit after only a few hours. I thought you might want

this back for whoever has to straighten out John's finances. Or should I be giving it to Eddie Sandifer?"

She put the pencil down but didn't move otherwise. "No, I'll take it. I'm the executrix, it turns out.

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